The Memory - A Twilight Fanfiction
by nano2015
Summary: A prequel to my story the Legacy, it follows the story of Brady, through love and loss, defeat and triumph, and asks the question, What does it mean to say that a life was well lived?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

So often, the monster under the bed isn't scary. When you turn on the light or open the closet door, the scary monster turns out to be a chair at a weird angle, or the sweater you put on the end of your bed. The real monsters are the people you're supposed to trust. It could be a sibling, a classmate, or even a parent. Brady wasn't afraid of monsters. When he watched horror films, he would laugh at the stupidity of the characters. He knew what took me a long time to understand.

The real monsters are people.

Running. In his mind, Brady was always running. His head was full of demons, chasing him and waiting for him to slip up or make a mistake. The rain streaked down the small window in the dark room, matching his mood. A loud boom and a flash of light made him press back against the wall and squeeze his eyes closed, willing the storm to stop. Ever since he could remember, he hated loud, sudden noises. He wished he could remember back to a time when things were happy, but he hadn't seen the point in trying to keep those memories when he probably would never see those days again. He tried to remember back to before things had gone dark, but it was so hard when everything seemed so hopeless. He knew he didn't belong here, but maybe that was just wishful thinking.

He woke up early the next morning and as quietly as he could, crept out of the house. It was a crisp morning, cool for Florida, and it was almost like the rain had cleansed the world and left it new. He took a deep breath, and hoped that today wouldn't be too bad. When he reached the school, there were only a few cars in the parking lot. He wandered to the playground where a few kids were playing basketball, and some others were standing on the sidelines, watching. He wandered over, keeping his distance. Even so, as he drew closer, one of the kids blocked his path.

"This is a private game," he said, arms folded.

"Sorry," Brady said, ducking his head and turning to leave.

"The freak section is over there," the kid said, gesturing to the far bleachers, where Brady saw one of the few people in this school that wasn't a total jerk, the special needs kid named Kevin. Kevin was nice enough, and people gave him about as hard a time of it as they gave Brady, but at least Kevin could get away from it at home. He'd seen Kevin's parents come to the school more than once to complain about the bullying culture.

Today, it seemed, their tormentors were in the mood for some fun. Brady was halfway to the bleachers when WHAM, the basketball hit him squarely in the middle of his back. He wasn't expecting it, and it nearly made him face plant. He picked up the basketball, dazed, and looked back toward the court. Several of the kids watched him, ready for a fight, but he just tossed it back, letting it lightly bounce a few times before it rolled to a stop just inside the boundary line. Conversation, which died down to see what he would do, bubbled back up.

"You should wash it off," one of the kids called out to the players on the court. "You wouldn't want to catch something." He gritted his teeth and kept walking. He sat down about five feet from Kevin.

"Hi Brady," Kevin said. "Is your back okay? I bet it hurt." Brady shrugged, and noted a red mark going down Kevin's neck toward his shoulder. "They got me too. But it's okay. My parents are transf-" he paused, frustrated, trying to think of the word. "Transferring me to a different school."  
Brady wasn't surprised. This was no place for someone like Kevin.

He abandoned the idea of hanging out outside, and went to his classroom. It was Friday, and the class was doing their annual charity project – a food drive this year. He made himself busy stacking cans as around him, kids trickled in, forming groups he wasn't a part of. He kept his head down and hoped that no one noticed him.

"What are you doing?" Someone asked, and he drew in a sharp breath, not looking up. But it was just one popular girl talking to her friend who was taking a selfie with the stacked cans. The day stretched on as they all did, but it was better here than at home, he reminded himself. He was halfway through a math problem when the bell rang for lunch. He trailed the rest of the class to the lunchroom, and the thinly veiled popularity contest. He'd never wanted to be popular, since he'd never had anything in common with these other kids who made his life miserable, but even the losers were above him in the pecking order. But he didn't talk to anyone or try to make friends anyway. How would he explain his life?

The rest of the day went more or less the way his days always went. When the bell rang, he made his way back to his classroom. His eyes were on the floor, and as he rounded the corner, he smacked into someone. He closed his eyes tightly as he felt the elbow shove him against the row of lockers. One of the locks hit his ribs, and he let out a hiss of pain. He didn't know who pushed him, and honestly it didn't matter. Taunting laughter rang in his ears as the group kept walking. Reluctantly, he pushed himself up and made his way to his classroom. He slid into his usual seat, in the middle row by the wall, just as the second bell rang. At least, he thought, his homework would be on time. He wasn't sure why he should care so much about it, though. It wasn't like anyone else did. Half the time, no one even noticed if he was in class or not. He'd heard somewhere that high school was supposed to be the best four years of your life, but he couldn't imagine what kind of sadistic person thought that up. When the last bell finally rang, he looked at the clock, automatically working out how long it would take him to get home so that he'd be on time.

He had just enough time to put his backpack in his room before his dad pulled him down the hall and back outside. He was shoved into the back of the dirty, dusty van, and over time, he'd learned how to brace himself so that the ride wasn't quite so bumpy. Even so, tonight every jolt sent searing pain across his side. When they got to the hotel, the woman guided him roughly inside a room. He stood off to the side and out of the way until she was ready for him. She pushed him to the bathroom and shoved a washcloth, soap and shampoo at him.

"Wash," she said, turning on the water. He got in obediently and scrubbed himself clean, forcing himself not to make a sound when he moved in a way that shot pain across his side. He knew better than to call attention to himself, and it wasn't like he wasn't used to pain. When he was done, she handed him two little white pills.

"I don't-" he started to say, but she slapped him sharply before he could get the words out.

"You'll do what you're told," she hissed. He closed his eyes and took them. The hot numbness flowing through his body was almost a welcome relief. In a daze, he pulled his clothes back on and went out to the room to wait.


	2. Chapter 2

Nathan Jones sat in the Clearwater Police Department squad room, going over the things in his briefcase. He'd been a detective for the Clearwater police force for fifteen years, and he specialized in cases involving children. Every case was nerve wracking, but this one was especially delicate because of the age of the victim involved, and that they knew it was going on for such a long time. He let out a deep breath, going over the outline of the operation one last time.

They had been investigating a child prostitution and abuse case, following a tip from a teacher at the local high school, a man named Adam Collins. The victim was a sixteen-year-old boy, and from reports, both of the parents involved were known dealers, and the boy was probably addicted to whatever they were dealing. Greed was a powerful motivator, and these people, (they didn't deserve the title of parent), were as bad as it got. They pimped him out to the businessmen and vacationers passing through, who would pay a lot for their fetish. It was a problem in all the vacation spots, where so many people were only there temporarily.

Nathan checked his watch before going to the conference room where the other guys on the team were about to be briefed on the details. The social worker was there too, and he nodded to her. Someone had mentioned that her name was Katie Evans, and he made a mental note to introduce himself when he had a chance.

In the briefing, they went over the timeline. Nathan was going to pose as a client and stay with the boy, while the rest of the officers arrested the two adults and any other handlers. Once arrests were made, the ambulance and the social worker would go to the hotel to get the boy and take him to Tampa Bay Children's Hospital. In the next few days, the police would search the house the suspects rented, to find evidence to support the case against the them.

The briefing didn't last long, and when it was over, Nathan checked his briefcase one last time before making his way to his car. He left the police station and stopped at a McDonald's before driving to the designated place, a dingy, cheap motel on the outskirts of the city. As he parked, he noticed a couple with a small boy heading inside. He tensed briefly, his hand resting on the gun he had in the pocket of the door, but relaxed, knowing that it was unlikely that this was his target. He waited until he got his signal before heading inside with his briefcase. He walked down the row of doors and stopped outside room 212. He knocked and a woman answered.

"You have the money?" she asked in a raspy voice.

Nathan nodded and handed her an envelope. She took it and shut the door, coming back a moment later and letting him in. Nathan glanced around the room, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand. It would do no good to blow this too soon. He saw the boy sitting on the bed, but he made himself casually look around the room and not zero in on the target. He thought back to the night in one of the many seedy clubs in this city, where he'd met a friend of theirs and asked if the friend knew anyone who would be able to fill his specific needs.

"Two hours of anything you want," the woman said, bringing him back to the present. "No rules, just leave when your time is up." Nathan nodded again, and the two of them left, so confident that they didn't have anything to worry about, in sharp contrast to the boy who sat on the bed with an air of defeat about him; it was so clear that he had given up.

Nathan set his briefcase down and loosened his tie before going over to the bed. The boy's eyes were dilated and he kept looking around nervously. Dark circles under his eyes made Nathan wonder when he'd slept last. Anger toward these people started to grow in the pit of his stomach as he sat in the chair next to the bed and waited for the text he would get when the suspects were arrested. Brady looked at him and took in a shaky breath as if expecting him to do something.

"Are you hungry? Or thirsty? Anything?" Nathan asked. The boy shook his head, still watching him cautiously. Nathan reached into his briefcase, and Brady closed his eyes as if bracing himself for something, but Nathan just pulled out a bottle of pepsi and a bag with a burger and french fries, and tossed them on the bed. Brady hesitantly opened his eyes after and minute. When his saw the food, he looked from it to Nathan, before cautiously reaching out and sliding it over to himself, hunching over it as he ate. He glanced at Nathan every few seconds, still expecting something. Nathan took the bottle, opened it for him. "What's your name?" he asked when the boy was done eating.

"Brady," the boy said softly, clearing his throat and sitting tensely, looking confused.

"Alright. So here's what's about to happen. I'm a detective, I'm with the Clearwater Police. We've been investigating your case for a while now. The police are out there arresting your handlers right now, and once they're in handcuffs, an ambulance is coming to take you to the hospital, and then from there you'll go into protective custody, so either a home for kids like you or foster care." Brady was shaking his head before Nathan finished talking, his face tense with fear.

"You're going to get me killed," he said, blinking hard to focus.

"Don't worry," Nathan said, knowing as soon as the words left his mouth that that was the wrong thing to say. Brady gave him an incredulous look, and then glanced at the exit, as if to gauge whether he could make it to the exit before Nathan stopped him. Nathan's phone buzzed, and he glanced at it even as he knew this was the signal he was waiting for. Moments later, there was a knock on the door, and he went to let the social worker and the paramedics in. When he turned around, Brady had slid down to the floor on the far side of the bed, hugging his knees, his eyes squeezed closed. Nathan went back and knelt next to him.

"Hey, Brady. You're in good hands, okay? This is Katie. She's the social worker on your case. She's going to take care of making sure you're safe." He reached out to... what? Reassure Brady, maybe, but Brady didn't react. He didn't respond to Katie talking to him, or the paramedics asking him to get up on the stretcher. Eventually, they gave up and picked him up. His head lolled back, and he gave no resistance. Somewhere in the stress, his brain shut down and he'd passed out. Nathan couldn't leave it like this, not without knowing for sure what was going to happen to Brady. He decided to follow the ambulance, with Brady and Katie loaded inside, to the hospital. It was a flurry of activity when the ambulance arrived. Brady was still unresponsive, and there was talk going around that perhaps he'd overdosed.

Nathan waited in the hallway while doctors and nurses did their job. He was on the phone with his supervisor when the doctor, Carlisle Lee, came out of the room with a case of blood and tissue samples the forensics team needed. Nathan looked at him expectantly, and he nodded once.

"He's awake. Sedated, so he'll sleep tonight, so if you need to ask him questions or anything, keep it brief." Nathan nodded and followed the doctor into the room. It was dim, but not oppressive. It looked sterile, with so much white. When he'd seen Brady earlier, the kid was wearing a red shirt and black shorts, but those clothes were part of the evidence, so he was wearing a hospital gown. The sharp contrast of the white of his skin and surroundings to his hair and the dark circles under his eyes was severe. He looked at Nathan with questions in his eyes, but said nothing. Nathan decided that questions could wait. He pulled up a chair and sat down. Brady's eyes never left his face, even though the drugs in his system were clearly pulling at him.

"Hey. Listen, kid. You're in good hands here, but if you need anything, I want you to call me. Anything, you understand?" This was not what Brady was expecting, and he cocked his head, brow furrowed. Nathan handed him a small cellphone. "My number's in here. I'll be back to see you tomorrow, but I mean it. Anything at all, you call or text me." Brady did not reach for the phone, so after a minute, Nathan set it on the table next to the bed. He waited for a moment for Brady to say something, but he could tell that the drugs were pulling the kid under again, so he stood up and patted Brady's shoulder, and then turned to go.

"Are they in jail?" He almost didn't hear the question, Brady's voice was so soft.

"Yeah. They're locked up. They can't get you here." He turned to look at Brady, and Brady had the sad smile of someone who knew too much, and didn't want to disappoint anyone. He moved to roll onto his side, and then hissed in pain. He paused for a minute, and then closed his eyes and let the drugs take over.

Out in the hallway, Carlisle was waiting for him with Katie, a troubled look on his face.

"What's the story, Doc?" Nathan asked. Carlisle gestured down the hall, and they walked together to his office. Carlisle didn't say anything until the door clicked shut behind them.

"I've seen my fair share of abuse cases, but it never gets easier," he said with a heavy sigh as he sat down at his desk. "It's not great news," he continued, handing Nathan one of two manila folders. "He's dehydrated and underweight, and he needs to go through detoxification to get the drugs out of his system. He came in with elevated levels of GHB and Rohypnol. He's got three fractured ribs, and from ex rays, it looks as though they've been re-broken at least twice." He took a deep breath to gather himself before continuing, "There are scars on his back and chest, and scars and bruising around his wrists and ankles. A likely diagnosis for him, mentally would be PTSD, depression and a social anxiety disorder, although we'll have to do a psych evaluation to really be sure. We also want to do an ECG in a few days when he isn't so stressed."

Katie sighed and sat back in her chair. She took a moment to go over what Carlisle was saying, and asked, "So, what do you think his chances are to have a decent life?"

Carlisle answered, "I think there's about a 50/50 chance, as long as the people he's with are willing to put in the effort and have patience. It'll take time, but I think we'll get there. He needs stability and it'll be a while before he feels like he has that. You have to wonder what kind of people would do something like this. For now, I think the best thing is for him to stay here. Let him recover. Once he's physically healthy, then we can figure out what the next step for him is."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

That night seemed like a new kind of punishment for Brady. He found himself longing for the familiarity of the normal punishments. The not knowing was enough to make him scream. He lay in the strange bed, waiting for it to start, looking up at the ceiling in a thousand yard stare, if he knew what that was. Every sound was a new threat, every strange smell was a new danger, and when the night nurse came in, a scream he'd held back for so long, tore out of him. People came running, more and more of them in their strange smelling clothes, and their hands trying to grab him and hold him back. He screamed and cried and fought them until he felt the familiar stab of a needle, and then relief as the dark swallowed him.

When he woke up again, he didn't know how much time had passed. He looked around cautiously, and dread started to fill his stomach. He was in a different room, on a bed that was more like a big plastic block against one wall with a mattress on it. There wasn't a pillow, but there were sheets and a blanket, and the mattress was soft. There was a window on one wall with bars on it, and a bathroom with no door, just a curtain. He sat up gingerly and drew his knees up to his chest and hugged them, trying to ignore his pounding headache. He was trying to figure out what might happen next when there was a knock on the door. A nurse came in with a tray of food. He shrank away from her, but she just set the tray on the end of the bed and walked out. The lock clicked behind her. Huh, locked in. He shouldn't be surprised. Hadn't he always been a prisoner of some kind, not allowed freedom, no matter where he went or what he did? He looked uncertainly at the door, and then back at the tray. The drugs were making his reactions slow, and he found it difficult to process his thoughts. He slid down to the floor next to the bed, facing away from the tray. What were the rules? What did they expect from him? What was going to happen? Everything was so overwhelming, and he couldn't _think._

He was still sitting on the floor when someone came back in and took the tray away. He held his breath until they left, only exhaling when the door clicked shut behind them. But his relief was short lived when the door opened again. Someone came in, walked around the bed and sat on the floor a few feet away from him.

"Hi," it was the doctor from last night. "How are you feeling?" He sounded like he actually cared, and Brady caught himself starting to warm up to this man. He shrugged. "Dumb question," the doctor said, looking at him speculatively. "Are you hungry?"

"I don't know," Brady said, looking away at the same time as his stomach growled fiercely. The doctor slid a tray over to him, and got up.

"When you're up to it, we want to finish the tests from yesterday, and then get you in to meet with a therapist."

An all too familiar creeping voice in Brady's head whispered to him, "You're such a loser. No wonder no one cares about you. You're wasting the doctor's time." He pulled his knees tighter into his chest. He uncovered the food on the tray and ate, conscious of Carlisle watching him. After he was done, and after Carlisle had taken away the tray, he curled up in a ball on the floor and tried to sleep. But he couldn't relax. His head was full of people and places he didn't want to remember, always with those voices whispering that he was just a waste of space.

"After all," they taunted. "Why else would these things happen to you?" He jerked awake suddenly when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He pulled away sharply and a jab of pain sliced across his side.

"Calm down, son. It's me. I just want to help you get back into your bed."

Carlisle's voice floated down to him, but that voice whispered in his ear, "He wants to hurt you, just like everyone else. I told you so."

"No! Don't touch me!" Brady pulled away and pressed himself tighter into the corner, pain slicing through his ribs. He heard Carlisle sigh, and there was a soft thump, and then Carlisle's footsteps walk away, and the click of the key in the lock, and then silence. Cautiously, he opened his eyes after a few minutes, still half convinced that Carlisle hadn't actually left. But the room was empty. There was a soft blue light glowing next to the door, and the blanket from the bed was laying crumpled next to him. He looked from it to the door. Finally, he wrapped himself up in it, trying to go back to sleep.

Carlisle took the clipboard off the wall next to Brady's door. He wrote down a couple notes and sighed. It was cases like this that he dreaded, children who had gone through so much that they might not be able to come back from it all. He went to the nurse's station and sat at one of the computers to check the cameras in Brady's room. Brady had curled himself back into a ball in the corner. At least he was using the blanket. That was progress.

As he was heating up the dinner his fiance left in the refrigerator for him, he couldn't stop thinking about how he might be able to reach Brady. Intensive therapy was in this kid's future, that was clear, but in what form? He was pioneering a music therapy approach, and maybe there was potential for it here. He'd read that music could reach through a person's mental defenses and pull them out of themselves. A quick search on his computer brought up articles that confirmed his theory.

He took the plate into the living room to catch the news, and his fiance, Esme, was sitting in her favorite spot, watching some show. She moved over for him, and then with a glance at his face, she turned the TV off and turned to him.

"What's wrong?" She asked. He set the plate down and sat down heavily, shaking his head. How could he explain the situation?

"This patient," he said finally. "The one I told you about yesterday. He's so far gone. I've never seen anyone as defeated as he is. And I want to help him, but I don't even know where to start. The physical is easy. Or it will be if he lets it. But I don't know if he'll ever recover mentally. And then the idea of this being all there is for him just kills me. And even if he does recover, what's in store for him is either a home for troubled kids, or foster care until he turns 18 and ages out of it, and neither option is ideal." He let out a heavy sigh. "He needs a family."

"You're the best doctor I know. You'll reach him," she said. He wished he had the same confidence.

"I hope so," he said. "What about your day? Have you decided on _anything_ for our wedding?" He couldn't help teasing. Esme was nothing if not indecisive. She shook her head, laughing.

"I don't even know if we should have an actual dinner after the ceremony or just the cake."

"You know I would marry you even if all we did was go to a courtroom and sign a marriage license, right?"

The next day, Carlisle met with the therapist assigned to Brady for the psych evaluation. They sat down together with Brady's file.

"I've read over what you said about music therapy, and I think it's definitely worth a try." She said as they walked toward her office. She flipped the laptop on her desk closed and slid it into its case. As she was leaving, on a whim she grabbed the guitar from the stand near the door.

She paused for just a moment outside the door before she knocked and went in. Brady was sitting on the floor on the far side of the bed, but he looked up sharply when she came in.

"Hi, I'm Alice. I'm the therapist assigned to your case, and I thought we could spend a little time getting to know each other while you're here." He eyed her, and then glanced at the guitar in her hand. "Do you know how to play it?" She asked, offering the instrument. He took it and ran a hand along the strings almost reverently. And then he started to strum it. It wasn't any song she recognized, but it was definitely something he knew. She watched him without comment, but she noted the way his face softened, and his eyes that were so dead before, lit up at the sight of the guitar. And then his hand stopped strumming, and his fingers closed over the strings.

"What happens to me now?" He asked. It was the first full, unprompted question he'd asked since he came here, and she knew it.

"You'll stay here for the time being, so you can recover. And once you're ready for discharge, you'll go to a foster home, or a home in Tampa for kids with disabilities."

"I'm not disabled," he said. She noted the set of his jaw, and the anger than flashed across his face. And the way it died almost too quickly to see.

"I know. But they have resources that you'll find useful if you go there." Absently, he began to play the guitar again, working out the melody for the Pachelbel Canon. He grew more absorbed with the music, and a faint smile ghosted his face. And then his eyes snapped to her and he stopped.

"When are my parents coming for me?" He asked.

"Your parents? They're not coming back," she said.

"They will," he corrected, shaking his head. "Nothing's going to stop them. They're going to kill me." Alice had heard a lot in her career, but the dead certainty in his voice was chilling. It was as if he accepted the fact that if he was here, then he was already dead. He shoved the guitar back at her, and wrapped the blanket more firmly around his shoulders. He tried to hide it, but it was painfully clear that he was holding back a tidal wave of emotion.


	4. Chapter 4

The door clicked shut behind Alice, and Brady closed his eyes. It didn't take her long to give up on him, he noted. Just as well, no sense in her wasting time. He ate the meal the nurse brought, and he couldn't tell what meal it was. They were clearly trying to help him gain weight. Whatever, food was food. He got up, wincing at the pull of muscles that hadn't moved in too long. In truth, he hadn't moved much since he'd arrived here. There wasn't much to see in this room, so he went to the window to see where he was. Was he even still in Clearwater? He didn't recognize the view, but he could see the glint of the ocean in the distance, so they couldn't have taken him too far from home. Maybe if he hurried, he could find his way home, and things wouldn't be too terrible. He slid down the wall next to the window, the blanket falling to the floor around him. He would not cry. He was determined not to cry. He dug his nails into his arm, knowing that he was drawing blood. He dragged his nails from his elbow to his wrist, fighting to keep himself together. The sting hurt, but he didn't care. The knowledge of what would happen when this was all over hurt more, and this was the only way he knew to let go of the iron grip he had on his emotions. He sucked in one breath, and then another, fighting not to let his crushing emotions loose.

There was nothing out there for him. Nothing but what he already knew: people would suck him dry and throw away his corpse with the rest of the trash, and then move on to whoever was next. He hadn't realized how much he'd been clinging to the hope that someday someone would come rescue him. He was aware that someone was there, but he didn't have the energy to fight anymore. If they wanted to hurt him so badly, let them. It was a relief when darkness took him.

He was vaguely aware that time was passing; the faint stream of music, tasteless meals spoon fed to him as if he was a baby, people talking to him, waiting for a response that he didn't know how to give. Why didn't they just do what they wanted and then send him back to where they found him?

The police banged on the door of the house and shouted "Open up, we have a warrant!" There was no answer, so one of the officers kicked in the door. "This is the police! If there's anyone here, make yourself known!" They went through each room in the house, but it was deserted. At the room at the end of the hallway, Nathan found a crumpled, dirty blanket, a backpack with the name Zachary Lee printed on it in a child's handwriting, and a stack of books and papers. Drawing after drawing of the same yellow house, drawn in crayon by a child, were scattered across the floor, as if a neat stack had been kicked over.

"This was his room," he said quietly, looking around. The room was small, more like a closet, and there wasn't really enough space for a person. The only source of light was a small, barred window, high on the wall. An adjoining bathroom was to their left. The whole room reflected the hopelessness in Brady's eyes. He picked up the blanket and something tumbled out of it. It was an old brown toy cat. The nose had originally been fuzzy, but the fuzz had long since worn off. The fur was soft, but it was old and worn. Nathan picked up the blanket, folded it, and put it in an evidence bag; they would come back for the books when they were done.

"What about the cat?" Nathan jumped as Andy, another detective on this case, spoke up behind him.

"It belongs to Brady. He should have it back."

Andy nodded. They moved on to the rest of the house. It was dirty and there was trash everywhere. In the master bedroom, there was a mattress with some blankets on it but no sheets, and some crumpled clothes and beer cans scattered on the floor. There wasn't much else there, so they moved on. They went to the kitchen where dirty dishes sat in the sink. The cabinets were almost empty except for a couple bags of chips, some peanut butter, and a bread bag with a couple slices left. The refrigerator only held an almost empty jug of spoiled milk.

They moved on to the living room. There was a lumpy couch, a cabinet with a small movie collection, an old television and a coffee table with empty Chinese food containers on it, and more beer cans and trash laying around. Behind the couch, there was a door leading down to a basement. Andy and Nathan followed two police officers down the stairs, leaving the other two to box up the evidence and take photographs. Andy flipped on the light as they reached the bottom of the stairs, and they looked around. This was what they were looking for. There was a shelf built into the wall with DVDs labeled by date. Under the shelf, there was a desk with a laptop sitting on it. In the desk drawers, there were bags of cocaine and lists of names and contact information. There was a camera on a tripod pointed at a mattress and some pillows and blankets at the other end of the basement. Nathan went to the camera, turned it on and went through the pictures. Picture after picture of Brady, just as he'd expected. Some with various adults, some of him with other boys, and some of just him. Andy put a hand on Nathan's shoulder and Nathan relaxed, not realizing that he'd been clenching his jaw.

"Let's finish this and go," Andy said, and headed back upstairs for evidence boxes.

When they got back to the police station, they carried the boxes of evidence into the forensics lab. Their forensic scientist, Eric, pointed at the table where the rest of the evidence was waiting. He was going through pictures of children on a computer, and he didn't look at them. Nathan came up behind him.

"What's this?"

"Child porn from some of the websites we've been monitoring. I've been able to ID Brady in some of them, but he's in pictures with some of the others, and I'm hoping he can help ID who and where they are. Go talk to him, see if he can give you any answers." Eric said. He put the forensic picture in a manila folder and handed it to Nathan.

Carlisle sat in his office reading through files. After Alice's initial assessment five days go, when the nurse went in during her rounds, she'd found Brady in the middle of a full blown panic attack. She called in back up and they tried to calm him down, but the more they'd done, the more panicked Brady had become. They'd had to sedate him so at least he wouldn't hurt himself more. Now, he was almost completely unresponsive, as if any fight that had been in him was gone. He just sat in the bed, staring blankly at the wall across from him. If only they could find some way to reach him. A knock on his door pulled Carlisle out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see Nathan and Andy in the doorway.

"Can I help you, officers?" He asked, gesturing toward the chairs on the other side of the desk. They sat down and Nathan put a file on the desk.

"We're here about Brady. Pictures of him with some other kids are featured on some websites we're monitoring, and we need him to help us find the other kids. Anything he can tell us would help," Nathan said, sliding a picture over to Carlisle. Carlisle took the picture and scanned it.

"I want to help, but I'm not sure if right now is the best time," he said reluctantly.

"We have to try," Nathan pressed. "I don't want to push him more than we have to either, but it could potentially mean the lives of at least two more kids, and maybe more. The longer we wait, the higher the risk to these kids." Carlisle had to agree with that, and he led the way to Brady's room. He was sitting up, leaning against the wall behind him and looking toward the window.

"Son, these police officers want to talk to you, okay?" Carlisle asked. There was no response, and after a minute, Nathan came up to the bed. Brady closed his eyes, but otherwise, didn't react.

"Hey buddy, we found something that belongs to you, and we thought you would want it back." Brady's eyes flew open, and it was the first reaction he'd given in over a week. Nathan held out the cat, and Brady stared at it without moving, and then finally he looked at Nathan, and then beyond him to Andy.

"You saw everything," he said. His voice was monotone, dead. They nodded, and Nathan offered him the cat again, but he shook his head. "I don't… I don't want it..." He fought to keep his voice steady. "It was a prop. It has a camera inside it. They're always watching." Andy took the cat, and opened the back. And just like Brady said, a tiny camera set in one of the cat's eyes sat nestled in the fluff. Brady watched with little reaction.

"Listen," Nathan said, bring Brady back to the conversation. "We're here for your help. You're the only one we can ask, and it's important." Brady's eyes flicked to him. "Do you know any of the other kids that were in a similar situation to yours? Kids you were photographed with?" Brady closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, looking sick. After a long moment, he nodded and opened his eyes.

"I know about four. Sam and Jared and Embry and Jacob," he said. Sudden urgency in his voice took them all by surprise. "But if you don't hurry, they might be gone. They would not hesitate to kill them."

"Where?" Nathan asked.

"I don't know the address," Brady said.

"Could you find it? On a map?" Andy asked, already pulling out his phone.

"I think so," Brady said, reaching for it. He examined the map on the phone, centering it on his own house, and then dragging it as if he were driving a virtual car. He paused, and then tapped on the street view. And then he bit his lip hard, and zoomed closer to one particular house. "This one. The basement. That's where they took the pictures. Sam said that's where they live. You have to go. You have to get them out."


	5. Chapter 5

Emmett Mccartney was so freaking sick of the bullshit. And of never belonging anywhere. Late last night, his mom woke him up and told him to pack his stuff because they were skipping town on yet another loser guy she wanted to leave behind. He rested his head back on the seat and looked out the window at the landscape go past. His mom was driving, and until about an hour ago, she was having a blast, listening to the radio too loud, singing along with it at the top of her voice. Her goal was to get to Florida and as far away from her most recent ex as she could on her current tank of gas. He sighed. He'd actually liked Georgia. They'd lasted almost a year there, and it felt as much like a home as a place could feel to him. He wasn't looking forward to starting over in a new town and a new school and the mask that he had to hold in front of the truth of his life. He watched the scenery pass, starting to see more and more palm trees the closer they got to the coast.

"I think we made it," she said, pulling into a parking lot. Emmett got out and looked around. The beach was white sand, and the water was a deep aqua. They walked out onto the pier where some people were playing music and dancing, and Emmett went to the railing looked out over the ocean. This place was beautiful, there was no doubt about it. He heard laughter and turned to see his mom joining in the dancing. He rolled his eyes. Of course the first thing she would do was find a guy. When was she not looking for a guy, whether she was done with the last one or not? He headed off the pier, knowing that she would neither notice or care, and walked down the beach, looking around this new town. It was nicer than any place they'd lived in before, and he knew he stuck out like a sore thumb. Self consciously, he smoothed his wrinkled t-shirt and watched the people around him. He'd always been good at figuring out how to blend it, and he knew he could do it here, too. People weren't that hard to read, and from experience, he knew that most people were more focused on themselves and how other people saw them, than on what the people around them were doing.

They found a house they could afford with a landlord who would take cash, and it didn't take them long to get everything moved in. Every time they moved, they left more stuff behind, and every new place felt less like a home than the place before. The house had two bedrooms, a living room and a kitchen. Not bad at all, compared to some of the places they'd lived in, and in spite of himself, Emmett was starting to like it here. If he played his cards right, they might even stay here long enough for him to turn 18, and then it wouldn't matter what his mom did.

But it didn't take long for this place to feel just like the place they'd left and all the places they'd been before that. Within a week, his mom found a boyfriend, the boyfriend moved in, and Emmett found himself spending less and less time around the house. it was a pattern he knew all too well. He always felt crowded out when the inevitable boyfriend came into the picture. Like tonight, for example. When he got home, the lights were all on, and he could hear the TV from the street. His mom and her boyfriend were in the living room, and they didn't notice him until he almost reached his room.

"You! Boy! Get me a beer from the fridge!" The boyfriend, Dave, barked at him. He didn't see the point of arguing, so he snagged a couple beers from the refrigerator for Dave and his mom, and took one to his room. Drinking was one way to block out the world. He went to his room and shoved the chair under the doorknob; he knew better than to leave his door open or unlocked, especially with the kind of people his mom attracted. He lay on the mattress and stared up at the dark ceiling. He couldn't wait until school started and he had a reason not to be home. Maybe he could look for some kind of job before school started, so he'd have money for clothes and stuff.

Carlisle was in his office when Esme knocked on the door and let herself in.

"I thought we could have lunch," she said, holding up a paper bag.

"Thanks," he said, distracted. He was going through Brady's file, reviewing Alice's notes from the last few days. Esme came around the desk to put his food on the counter behind him, and paused at the sight of the feed from the camera in Brady's room.

"Is that him?" She asked.

"Yeah," he said, barely glancing up. "I'm trying to find a way to reach him. But he's been hurt by so many people that connecting is something he's actively avoiding. And I would, too, if it was me. It's so complicated. On the one hand, you have compassion for him, but on the other, you want him to realize that we're not like the people who hurt him." He looked at the feed on the screen. Brady was dressed in white, sitting in a chair next to the window, looking out at the world beyond the glass, still as a statue. Right on schedule, a nurse came in with a tray of food that she set on the table next to the tray from breakfast, which sat untouched. She said something, and waited for a reply, but Brady didn't respond. After a moment, she left, taking the breakfast tray with her.

"Let's have lunch with him," Esme said brightly. Carlisle looked up to protest, but he knew that look in her eye, and he knew it would do no good to argue. Besides, connection was the goal, so what harm would it do? Plus, it wasn't like Brady had family coming to spend time with him. He led the way to Brady's room. Inside, it was exactly how it looked on the camera feed. The tray sat, untouched, on the table. Brady, himself, flicked his eyes to them, and then back toward the window. A less keen eye wouldn't notice the way his breathing quickened, or the way his jaw clenched.

"This is my wife, Esme. We thought you'd like company for lunch," Carlisle said. They sat down at the table, as if this was just a normal meal with nothing unexpected or unusual. They kept up a easy chat throughout the meal, and Carlisle noticed several times that Brady looked over, both to the tray of food waiting for him, and to the two of them. He didn't get up, but he was definitely wondering what they were doing, and what their angle was. When they were done, and they couldn't find any reason left not to leave, they cleared the table, and pushed the chairs in. Esme paused at the doorway.

"We'll see you for dinner," she said. This time, Brady really did look at her, brow furrowed. And then, slowly and deliberately, he nodded twice.


	6. Chapter 6

It was just after dinner time, when Alice found a minute to stop by Carlisle's office.

"Alice, have a seat," Carlisle said, setting aside the file he was thumbing through. "I saw in your report that you want to go right to medication."

"Medication offers the least stress to his system, and the most direct route to his recovery. But I also want to get Tinsel involved." He raised an eyebrow, and then nodded.

"Why not. Maybe that will break through his shell."

Tinsel was a long haired gray therapy cat, who made regular visits to the patients at the hospitals in the area. Alice walked down the hallway with Tinsel's handler. Tinsel walked alongside them, the bell on her collar jingling merrily. Alice knocked on the door, and didn't wait for an answer before pushing it open.

Brady sat, cross legged on the bed, looking out the window, but his hands were in tight fists in his lap. He looked over sharply at the bell, and then his expression changed to quizzical, taking in the cat. Were cats allowed in the hospital?

"Brady, this is Tinsel," Alice said. His eyes snapped up to hers. "She's here to visit with you. She's a therapy cat." Tinsel took stock of the room, and then with a little sound and a jingle of her bell, she jumped up on the bed and sat at the end of it, watching him the same way he was watching her, with curiosity and a twinge of wariness. Slowly, he reached a hand out to touch her, and she willingly sniffed his fingers and then rubbed her cheek on his hand. He watched her, an odd expression on his face, almost wistful. He took his hand away, and she came over to his lap, stepping delicately into the cradle his legs made, and curled up. She looked up at him, and blinked slowly, a deep, rumbling purr building in her chest. He lay back against his pillow, and she was content to purr in his lap as he pet her. She didn't ask for anything or expect anything, so when Alice said it was time for her to go, he let her go without complaint. It was the first time in as long as he could remember that anyone or anything was willing to touch him without any kind of recoil.

Emmett woke up late. It was Saturday, and he was hungover from a late night of alcohol and video games. He went to the kitchen, not all that surprised or disappointed that his mom and her boyfriend weren't there. He was just sitting down to a bowl of cereal when he heard a soft thump at the door. When he opened the door, a newspaper sat on the doorstep.

"Hey, we don't get this delivered," he started to say to the delivery kid, but the kid was already halfway down the street, so he shrugged and took it inside to read while he finished his breakfast. On the front page was a picture of a kid, and under it were mug shots of two adults that looked just like him. It looked like a mug shot or something, but the headline read, "PROSTITUTION RING: BUSTED." It was a story about a kid who was the victim of a prostitution ring, and how the police had finally found him, thanks to a tip from a teacher at the school. Emmett tossed the paper on the table and rubbed his eyes. Christ, there were some pretty messed up people out there. He wasn't even just thinking about that kid's story; in his own life, there were plenty of shitty adults, mostly guys his mom dated. And she sure as hell knew how to pick them. He couldn't wait until he was on his own, and could decide for himself what kind of people he would have around. He wanted to be in control and free, and he felt stuck and held back by everything in his life. He put his bowl in the sink and headed out to shoot some hoops to take his mind of things. He was dribbling when a group of kids from school walked by.

"Hey!" One of them yelled to him, "You play basketball?" He caught the ball and looked at them. They seemed like cool enough people, and he nodded and tossed the ball at the one who had shouted.

"Yeah, I play a little," he answered, and the guy who caught the ball pointed at each of the others.

"This is Liamr and James and Riley and Liam, and I'm Jasper. Lets do teams." They played for about an hour, with Emmett on a team with Jasper and James.

"Okay! You win!" Liamr shouted, flopping down onto the grass. He and Riley and Liam were on the other team, and they were all looking at Emmett. "You gotta join the basketball team. We could really use you next year."

"We'll see," Emmett said, sitting down on the grass next to them.

"'We'll see'?" Jasper said, incredulous. "You have to join the team! We lost a bunch of really good guys this year, and we're gonna need some strong players."

"Yeah, sure, why not?" Emmett lay back on the grass. It was better than going into a new school not knowing anyone.

"You wanna go get something to eat?" James asked, and while the rest of them got up eagerly, Emmett followed, hesitating a little. He hated stuff like this. Money was always tight, especially right now since he still didn't have a job, and his mom sure as hell didn't have any extra money to give him. Still, he followed them to McDonalds, and they all trooped in.

"Now, as our newest teammate, this is our treat." Jasper said, and Emmett looked at him sharply, but Jasper grinned at him, and put a hand on his shoulder. "We're a team. We always pool our money and eat together. Just contribute next time."

Carlisle sat in his car outside the house, taking a minute for himself before going inside. Much as he loved his wife, he needed a minute to decompress by himself. Today was rough. Against his advice, one of his patients, a man with uncontrolled diabetes left the hospital, convinced he could take care of himself just fine at home. His argument, and one that infuriated Carlisle just by being a necessary argument, was that he couldn't afford hospital care. If Carlisle had his way, life-saving care should be free and readily available to everyone who needed it. As it was, it was almost a punishment to ask for or receive help.

On top of that, the hospital lab techs mixed up the results of two patients' tests, so one woman who'd tried for years with IVF to get pregnant believed she was expecting, and another, who could not afford another mouth to feel, believed her test was negative. And Carlisle had to go and iron that one out. Tears in both rooms. Much as he loved what he did, there were times like this, where he wished he wasn't a doctor.

He took a deep breath and went inside. Dinner was in the kitchen, but Esme wasn't.

"I'm home," he called.

"In the study," she yelled back. He went into the study to see what she was up to. She was on the computer, looking at... Adoption websites?

"Hi," he said, leaning against the doorway. She turned to him, and her eyes were lit up with an idea that he almost already knew he was going to say yes to.

"I want to talk to you about this idea," she started. "Hear me out, okay? I've been thinking about your patient since you told me about him, and-"

"Esme," he started, but she cut him off.

"He doesn't have a family. You said so yourself. You said no one wants him. I want him."

"You want him." Carlisle repeated. There was no trace of hesitation in her face. She was certain that this was the right thing to do, and she wanted to be the one to do it. "You want him," he said again, the words taking on new meaning, even as he said them.

"He needs a family," she said. "And we need a son." Pain glinted in her eyes at that. He knew how much she wanted children, even as her body refused her over and over. "I'm sick of hoping every month, and being disappointed every month. I want him."


End file.
